The Fence

by Meredith Jaffe

  Eric is at the kitchen bench, knife poised to quarter an orange.

  ‘Here, let me do that,’ she says, taking the knife from him. The way Eric cuts up oranges means small segments stick in his teeth, impossible to remove without floss. Luckily she’s arrived in time. Eric steps away from the bench allowing Gwen access to the cutting board.

  She hands Eric the plate of sliced fruit, saying, ‘Michael wanted to show Soo-Lin the house first.’

  Eric takes his orange to the dining nook. ‘He’d be keen to show her where he grew up.’

  Gwen rinses her hands and dries them on a tea towel. ‘That’s what he said. And she said that Michael never talks about his childhood. Why do you think that is?’

  ‘Can’t be that relevant in Singapore.’

  Gwen harrumphs, plonking herself opposite Eric, the vinyl squeaking in protest. ‘I planned that they’d come here and have some slice and a cuppa first. We’d have a proper catch-up. I even got these out,’ she pats the pile of photo albums next to the fruit bowl. ‘I thought Soo-Lin might like to see Diane and Jonno’s kids. After all, we’re practically family.’

  Eric eats his orange in silence, pushing the plate aside and drawing his cup and saucer in front of him. He eyes the tray of slice sitting on the bench but Gwen chooses to ignore him.

  ‘We haven’t seen him in years and his mother’s just died for goodness sakes.’ Her cup clatters into the saucer.

  ‘I know you had it all worked out, Gwennie. You’ve always been good like that.’ Eric tries to take her hand but she brushes her hair behind her ear to avoid it.

  Eric sighs and drinks his tea. ‘I wouldn’t mind a piece of that slice myself. It’d go nicely with the tea.’

  ‘Not now,’ she snaps. Her shrillness is echoed by the kitchen timer and she shoots to her feet to pull the pork from the oven.

  Through lunch, Gwen deliberately avoids asking Michael about his plans for the house but as they eat their dumplings, Eric says, ‘If I were you, Michael, I’d think long and hard about putting a pergola over that front porch. That westerly sun is a real killer in summer.’

  Michael clears his throat. ‘Well, yes, that’s certainly a good idea, Uncle Eric, and it’s something we’d probably consider doing,’ he pauses, ‘if we were staying.’

  Gwen’s spoon drops to her bowl. ‘You’re not staying?’

  Michael winces. ‘The thing is, Auntie Gwen, our lives are in Singapore. I’m about to manage a new dam project in Thailand. Soo-Lin has taken a position as a senior research fellow at the South East Asian Institute for Tropical Diseases.’

  ‘That’s impressive,’ says Eric, turning to Soo-Lin. ‘Are you specialising in any particular area?’

  ‘Malaria,’ she says.

  Gwen stares at Michael. ‘So will you rent the house out then?’ Not that she likes this idea at all. A constant rotation of people moving in and out who won’t care for a house or garden that isn’t theirs. She has lived in this street with most of the same people her entire married life. The thought of strangers is unbearable.

  Michael tidies his napkin before saying, ‘I thought … we thought,’ he rests a tentative hand on Soo-Lin’s leg, ‘it might be better to sell up. Property in Singapore is outlandishly expensive. The extra money will come in handy.’

  ‘Is it now?’ comes Eric again. ‘How much would a place like your parents’ set you back over there?’

  Michael shakes his head. ‘God, we wouldn’t even dream of buying a house, Uncle Eric. That’s way out of our league. We were thinking more of one of the newer apartments close to the city.’

  ‘So you couldn’t even afford to buy a house? That’s no good, is it?’

  ‘When are you thinking of putting it on the market?’ Gwen snaps, sounding angry when it’s really the terrifying thought of her world falling apart. First Rohan gone, then Babs and now the house. Has Michael no idea what a wrench that will be?

  Michael squints his apology. ‘Pretty much straight away. We’re staying in Sydney for a couple more days. We want to line up a real estate agent before we go. Do you know of anyone good who works this area, Uncle Eric?’

  ‘Well now,’ begins Eric.

  ‘There hasn’t been a house sold in this street in years,’ Gwen cuts in.

  ‘There were the Morrises at number 33,’ corrects Eric.

  ‘That was only because their children moved them into a retirement village,’ Gwen says. Some children cannot wait to get their hands on their inheritance. The only way Gwen is ever leaving this house is in a box.

  ‘The Morrises?’ Michael asks.

  ‘Yes, you remember them, Michael. The people in the awful mock Tudor house they called Rose Cottage. English couple. Shirley caught you and Jonno stealing roses from over the fence to give me and Babs for Mother’s Day that time and chased you up the street. That nasty Maltese Terrier of hers bit poor Jonno’s ankle.’

  She’s never forgiven Michael for that. As the eldest, he should have known better. The ankle took ages to heal and Jonno missed three weeks of cricket.

  ‘There’s that bloke Keith used to play golf with,’ Eric says. ‘I could ask Val if you like. She might still have his number. Bob something or other.’

  Gwen shoots to her feet and begins stacking the bowls. ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’

  Michael stands. ‘I think we best get going, Auntie Gwen. Thanks for the lovely lunch, it made me feel like a kid again.’

  She can see he wants to kiss her cheek but she isn’t in the mood for token gestures of affection. She fusses with wiping the benches down while Eric wanders off.

  Michael pats his pockets, checking for his keys. ‘Well it was lovely to see you again, though I’m sorry for the reason.’

  Gwen has a sudden thought. ‘What about your mother’s things? Aren’t you taking them with you?’

  Michael flushes. ‘I’m leaving the house furnished. Houses don’t sell well empty and people hear the term “deceased estate” and think bargain.’

  ‘But her clothes, her jewellery.’ Gwen thinks of that painting but isn’t sure if Soo-Lin realises that the nude hanging over the fireplace in the lounge is her dead mother-in-law.

  ‘There’s not much to take, Auntie Gwen. I think Mum must have had a clean out when she knew she was dying. There’s a couple of boxes of photos and sentimental items but that’s about it.’

  Gwen is overcome by the desire to rid herself of Michael and his traitorous wife. Soo-Lin has put him up to this, she thinks, pushing Michael around, telling him what to do. She knows the sort.

  Eric ambles into the room carrying a business card between his finger and thumb. ‘Michael, I found this business card. Bob Henshaw’s his name. I’m not sure if he still owns the business, but it might be worth giving him a call. They’re just up at the shopping centre, you could pop in on your way back to the city.’

  As Michael goes to take the card, Gwen snatches it from Eric’s hand and rips it in half. ‘Bob Henshaw died three years ago, Eric. We went to his funeral.’

  Eric looks confused. ‘Did he?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gwen hisses. ‘They had the wake at the golf club. How could you forget? A dry wake at a golf club for goodness sakes. Who has a dry wake for a seventy-five year old?’ And then she flushes, remembering Babs’ wake had also been dry. Tea and cake for a woman who enjoyed nothing more than a cold white wine and a bowl of olives.

  To hide her embarrassment, she puts the pieces in the kitchen bin, forgetting, in her state, that the card should go in the recycling box.

  ‘We’ll drive by anyway,’ Michael says, shaking Eric’s hand. ‘See you next time, Uncle Eric.’

  He turns to Gwen. ‘Thanks for lunch, Auntie Gwen.’

  Gwen refuses him an answer, preferring to let the silence grow.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers, looking every bit as shame-faced as he used t
o when she caught him sneaking extra crackling.

  Standing at the lounge room window, Gwen watches them reverse down the drive. Heading off into a future far, far away. Sighing, she takes the damp tea towel from her shoulder and goes into the kitchen to hang it on the oven to dry. She’s out of sorts. It’s more than Michael selling the house. They’re robbing her of everything precious about her past and exposing her and Eric to an uncertain future. She feels vulnerable.

  Outback + Outdoors

  June In the Garden with Gwen Hill

  Many new gardeners mistakenly think the winter months are quiet. Time to potter in the shed rather than brave the frosty mornings and cooler days. However, June is in fact one of the busiest months of the year.

  It’s time to prune deciduous fruit trees and give them a good spray with winter oil to rid them of dormant pests. Grapevines in particular need hard pruning to remove debris, a common source of infection, especially in the spring.

  June is also the perfect time to thin out old, diseased plants that just aren’t flourishing. Make hard decisions between plants competing for light and space and rid yourself of the non-performers. You’ll be amazed how quickly your favourite plants thrive once competition is removed.

  Tip of the month

  Cross-infection is an ever-present problem when pruning. When cutting off diseased limbs, make sure you wipe the blade of the pruning saw with methylated spirits between cuts to protect the lower limbs from infection.

  Gwen’s June

  If Babs were here, she’d laugh at Gwen hovering in the front garden waiting for the new neighbours to arrive. Gwen can almost hear her saying, ‘Look at you, Gwennie, raking up the leaves from beneath the plane trees, pretending you’re busy.’

  ‘That’s not entirely fair,’ Gwen replies in her head, surveying the soft mounds of leaves heaped under several of the trees along Green Valley Avenue. ‘I do this every year.’

  They used to burn the leaves but the council never lets you do such things anymore. ‘No, now we live in the nanny state,’ Gwen mutters to herself. No besser block incinerators, no smoking piles sending up their woody aroma. Mind you, even before the council’s interference, Gwen had changed her tune on the issue of burning leaves. Leaves are valuable organic matter better suited to mulching and keeping the soil warm in winter.

  Gwen hears the crunch of tyres on the road before she sees the white four-wheel drive heave into the driveway of 18 Green Valley Avenue. She continues raking the leaves whilst sending out waves of disapproval beneath the shadows of her wide-brimmed hat. The large European model car has a ‘Baby on Board’ sign suctioned to a side window and a stick family in the bottom left corner of the rear window. It provides advance warning that the dad plays a guitar, that the mother is a perky sort with a mobile phone glued to her ear and a laptop in her hand, and the children are a superhero, a ballerina and a gymnast. The baby appears to have angel wings and a halo. Nauseating, Gwen thinks, raking so hard that she bends a tine on her favourite rake. Squinting, she sees what appears to be two sheep. Sheep? ‘Well I hope you’re satisfied, Babs Mody,’ Gwen accidentally says aloud, almost hearing Babs’ low chuckle in reply.

  Gwen hasn’t met the new neighbours. When the open for inspections were on, she was at the studio in Chatswood doing her gardening talkback show. She’s had to rely on Eric’s somewhat ambiguous descriptions and, being Eric, he tended to confuse the details of which couple were which. Scurrying along to the next tree, Gwen reflects on her conversations with Eric but no matter how she sifts and sieves the information, she is adamant he never mentioned children – and so many!

  The woman, she of the mobile phone and laptop, has brown hair tied up in a high ponytail. She’s wearing those oversized sunglasses in fashion these days. Her skirt flares around her boots and a long cardigan flaps over the whole ensemble. It is an unfortunate look on a woman barely scraping five foot four. The proportions emphasise that she is a shorty, or as Eric likes to call them, ‘a duck’s arse’.

  The kids are released one by one. First comes a little boy with blond hair past his shoulders so it is only the snowman t-shirt that makes Gwen certain he is a he. Next comes a little girl identical in looks and dress. The pair scamper straight into the garden, trampling the native violets under the camellias as they go.

  The father holds a fat toddler with remarkable ginger hair wearing the same outfit as her siblings but Gwen is more interested in how the man is dressed. Pretending to rake some leaves from under the buddleja in the front border, she sneaks closer, bending to peer through its branches.

  He wears black jeans and a bulky fisherman’s jumper with a pea coat over the top. It’s Rosedale not Russia, thinks Gwen. But it’s the hat that annoys her most. More of a giant tea-cosy than a hat. A beanie, she supposes, but not the kind that a real fisherman might wear to protect himself from the bitter winds of the Black Sea, no, this beanie sort of sags at the back. When Jonno was in his teens he used to like that Bob Marley who wore a not dissimilar beanie over his dreadlocks. On a handsome black man like Bob Marley, a baggie beanie looked stylish, but on a weedy white man, it looks pretentious.

  He passes the squirming toddler to its mother and retrieves the last member of their family, a plump baby girl, dressed in a glittery pink wraparound cardigan, silver stockings, silver shoes and a tutu. Given she looks to be about six months old, Gwen wonders what kind of ballet lessons a child this age could possibly attend.

  As if this is not enough, the mother opens the boot and out jump two woolly coated dogs, one brown, one golden. Labradoodles, the breed of the moment. If you could call it a breed. Only the other day Gwen was at Rosedale Shopping Square and saw them at fourteen hundred dollars a pup, and some awful combination of Jack Russell and Pug for a similar amount. It staggers belief that people could charge that kind of money for a bitzer. When she was a girl, if the German Shepherd jumped the fence and made your Corgi a mother, it wasn’t called a Corgi Shepherd and the pups flogged for a cool thousand plus dollars. No, it was called a mutt and you were lucky if you could give the pups away.

  The dogs’ noses go straight to the ground and they snuffle amongst the leaf litter. The brown one lifts its leg and sprays the box hedge surrounding one of the crab apples and the golden dog prances over to Gwen’s front yard and leaves a large deposit in the middle of her bowling green lawn where it steams in the cool morning air.

  Its business finished, the dog rushes to where Gwen stands, rigid with indignation, and plants its wet nose in her crotch.

  ‘Butter! Stop that,’ the woman says, not in a stern voice inferring that such behaviour is unacceptable but in a soft, wheedling tone as if begging the dog’s forgiveness.

  ‘We’ll clean that up,’ the man says, joining his wife.

  Gwen glances at the other dog, which sniffs at her shrubbery before taking another pee and galloping into the open garage where Eric is working.

  She has no choice but to come around the buddleja and introduce herself.

  ‘Gwen Hill,’ she announces, offering her hand.

  The woman takes it though it is clear she’d prefer Gwen had not made the offer. ‘Francesca Desmarchelliers. And this is my husband, Brandon.’

  Brandon nods at Gwen, making no attempt to shake hands.

  ‘I know your name from somewhere,’ Francesca adds, a thoughtful look on her face.

  Gwen is used to people saying that. Whilst her media presence is modest, she is often surprised how many people read her monthly column in Outback + Outdoors. The photo of her in the magazine is years out of date but more than once she’s been at the Blossoms ’n’ Buds Nursery and had people come up to tell her how much they love her column or how they listen to her every Saturday morning, rain, hail or shine. Of course, the downside to this recognition is that people often want advice about something that has gone horribly wrong with their azaleas or that their lemon tree seems to be on its la
st legs and she’ll be waylaid for half an hour or more when she’d just ducked in for a bag of blood and bone. Still, as she reminds herself after such intrusions, these are her audience and without them she’d have no column or talkback radio show. Gwen Hill would be unemployed.

  ‘I write a gardening column, perhaps you’ve read it.’ For a second, a glimmer of hope shines as she thinks that perhaps these new neighbours might not be so bad, despite their tribe of children and their dogs with uncontrollable bowels, but that hope dissipates at Francesca’s next comment.

  ‘No, no. I don’t read gardening magazines,’ she says, shaking her head so her ponytail swishes back and forth like a horse’s tail. ‘I don’t even like gardening. It must be something else.’

  Gwen pushes the dog away from her crotch again, saying in a stern, proper puppy-disciplining tone, ‘No, Butter.’

  Brandon laughs. ‘He’s not as bad as Peanut.’

  Peanut and Butter. Oh my, Gwen thinks.

  ‘I know where I know you from.’ Francesca’s face brightens.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Gwen smiles. A lot of dedicated ABC followers listen to her Saturday morning program, even the non-gardeners. It’s quite an entertaining show, even if she does say so herself. The host Ian Day is a real scream.

  ‘At Gumnut Cottage. Your picture is on the staff wall there.’

  Gwen sags.

  Francesca turns to her husband. ‘Remember, Brandy? The lady who gave us the tour told us about the children’s garden and how they have a special helper who comes in once a week to teach the children how to grow things. That’s you, isn’t it? You’re the special helper.’ She beams.

  How Gwen hates that term ‘special helper’ but Diane insisted upon it. What could she say? Diane is the director at Gumnut. ‘Yes, that’s me.’

  ‘Oh how wonderful that our neighbour will be helping out at Silver and Amber’s kindy. They’ll love that.’

  When the woman sees the blank look on Gwen’s face, she adds, ‘The twins. Silver and Amber. Marigold will be starting there next week too. We would have left them at Little Doves but there’s no way we’re travelling back and forth to Annandale. I mean, we will miss the Mandarin lessons and the drumming group but the director assured me that the children’s enrichment is as high a priority at Gumnut as it is at any kindy.’